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Juliana scowled.
“And you keep giving me yet more proof. These two, please, good woman.” He laid the pendants down on the surface.
Mabel took out a ring with a sharp claw on the end, and stabbed the inside of Hawthorn’s wrist, letting a single droplet of blood splash onto the thorn.
“Oww,” Hawthorn gasped, clutching his arm.
“Really?” Juliana hissed. “‘Twas a pinprick, Prince Prickle.”
“Not all of us are tough and calloused, all right?”
Juliana watched Mabel clean the claw, throwing the rag into the fire beneath her cauldron, all while under her steady gaze. The witch came back for her blood. Juliana was half-tempted to cut herself with her own dagger, just to prove how tough she was, even though she knew that was wildly impractical.
And why should she have to prove herself toHawthornof all people?
The witch took the second sample and threw both pendants in the cauldron. Hawthorn took Juliana’s hand, inspecting the prick. “Need me to kiss it better?”
“I will chuck you in that cauldron.”
“Wouldn’t do much harm,” the witch muttered, stirring the pot. “Not nearly hot enough. No lethal ingredients.”
Hawthorn blinked. “Are all women obsessed with murder, or is it just you two?”
“The common denominator in this equation is you,” Juliana said pointedly. “A lot of people want to murder you.”
“That is harsh and also fair,” Hawthorn admitted. “Witch, when shall our trinkets be ready?”
“Give it another minute or two. Can’t rush magic.”
“Depends on the magic,” Hawthorn responded, summoning flames and making them flick through his fingers like coins. He glanced sideways at Juliana, as if expecting her to be impressed by this trick she’d seen him do a hundred times. Sensing her displeasure, he cupped the fire together, opening his palms to reveal he’d fashioned it into a tiny dragon which he let scurry over the tabletop before vanishing into smoke.
“You think there would be more practical applications for fire magic,” Juliana said coolly.
“I could burn the market down, but that seems a little extreme.”
Juliana groaned. “Why are youneverserious? You’re supposed to be king one day!”
“Am I?” he said. “News to me. I’m the Cursed Prince, remember? No one expects me be anything but a bomb.”
Juliana stilled.But I do,she realised, glad he couldn’t read her thoughts. Because for whatever ridiculous reason, she believed he could be better, do more.
Adjust your expectations,warned a voice.He will only disappoint you.
There had been a few times over the years—well, more than a few—where she’d seen him be different,more.He’d offer kind words to a troubled citizen, get caught speaking plainly and softly to a wounded animal or worried servant… even, once or twice, to her. But then a wall would go up, and he’d be back to barking orders and complaining about spots on his shirts, and all traces of a benevolent ruler would vanish.
Hawthorn was used to disappointing people. Juliana wondered if he’d be different if someone believed in him.
He hates you,she reminded herself.Or barely tolerates you. He is not interested in what you think.
“Done!” Mabel declared, hoicking out the pendants with her ladle. She placed them on the side to cool. “All yours, once we’ve extracted payment.”
Juliana cringed as the witch pulled out a long glass object.
“Extracted…?” Hawthorn’s eyes widened, latching onto the instrument. He turned back to Juliana, face pale. “What did you promise her?”
“Six months,” Juliana returned. “No big deal.”
“Of yourlife?”
